Making it through the Week.

Another Friday night, another show filled with music and information that ranged from reviews of Astronaut Farmer and The Last Time, to stretching exercises and ways to show yourself love. As I do here, I mine my life for happenings and moments that hold meaning for me or that caught my eye, held my attention and spin them into words and spit them out a gentle froth of nothing much that floats, alighting here and there, dandelion fluff, a mass of tiny seeds that may someday take root and grow to a thought, an idea, an ambition or intention to achieve...or maybe not. It doesn't matter. I am a messenger, not the message.

I noticed today my show is getting longer as the days shrink and sunrise makes its shift to later on. This will continue to the solstice deep in winter, and my birthday, nine months to the day after the wedding on the equinox. Then the shift will move the other way, clipping minutes off the time I have to talk, to play and weave my tapestries of tangent thoughts and instincts.

Sausages and egg for breakfast, spicy, hot, all brown and gleaming; cholesterol heaven because I am ravenously hungry burning adrenaline full power through the night, no other way to do it for me. I like it here. I don't talk to many, but there are people who I look for, feel concern for when their profiles go to sleep or if they do not post for a couple of days. Others will engage me with a topic or a post that speaks to me of humanity in its myriad forms of pain and confusion and right now the crash is beginning, the tumble from the high of extended performance is turning off the light behind my eyes and sweeping me close to oblivion, light headed and hollow to my bones. Sweet Morpheus has the number to my heart and is pulling at its strings hand over fist to reel me down into his dark sweet cloud the dizzy promise of his kiss outweighs all pretension to literary merit. I must sleep.